


Mischief

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, inappropriate sexual adventures in the workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 09:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: Really, he didn’t intend to be participating in the 2006 Pegasus Galaxy Sexual Olympics.





	Mischief

Really, he didn’t intend to be participating in the 2006 Pegasus Galaxy Sexual Olympics. This is just what _happens_ with the two of them. She’s stubborn. God knows he’s stubborn. They aren’t able to _casually_ do anything—they once played 100 games of tic-tac-toe just because he made an offhanded claim to be unbeatable, and he spent two months reading the dictionary after someone on the _Daedalus_ left them a copy of Scrabble and Elizabeth announced she was her fifth-grade champion. He strongly regrets ever introducing her to _Wii Sports,_ because they didn’t sleep for a week trying to beat each other at simulated tennis.  
  
Taking all of that into account, it’s not surprising that she’s half-naked in the conference room with her hand down his pants.  
  
And laughing at him.  
  
“Stop _looking_,” she says into his ear. “Believe me, if the doors open, you’ll know.”  
  
The thought of that is a little distracting, and not in a good way. He likes Elizabeth like this—loves it, maybe, but theirs hasn’t been the sort of affair where they _say that_. It’s his favorite look on her—sexy and wild and without pants—but he very much does _not_ like the idea of sharing this particular view with any random schmoe who wants to use the room.  
  
Wants to use it for something _other_ than this, probably, at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday.  
  
Her hand squeezes, and distracted or no, he gasps, his hips thrusting involuntarily. _Christ_, she’s dangerous, and he really, really, really needs to think through what he says, because telling her that she_ wouldn’t_ do something this crazy is pretty much a guarantee that she will.  
  
_“Rodney_ could walk in,” he reminds her, and fuck, he wants her to stop—he’s not stopping first—but he can’t help but kiss her, strong and hard and she tastes like her afternoon coffee and dammit, he shouldn’t be encouraging this. _No pants._ He can’t be held responsible under the circumstances.  
  
And he isn’t responsible when he shoves his hands up her shirt, the red shirt that didn’t used to drive him nearly so damned crazy, and presses her back against the table.  
  
“This is a terrible idea,” he reminds her, but she’s tugging on his belt and he’s kind of forgetting _why_ this is a bad idea (conference room, mid-afternoon, Chuck might come looking for her, the doors don’t even _lock_).  
  
“So was the balcony,” she says, “Or the infirmary—_mmmm_, or—”  
  
“—puddle jumper—” he’d taken her right on the console, display readings going crazy, he’s lucky he didn’t destroy the damned city—  
  
“Not my idea,” she reminds him, and drags his pants down over his hips, and he’s moved her underwear aside and has two fingers inside her and he will never, ever be able to sit in a briefing in here again without remembering how she _smells_.  
  
He thought he would be the kinky one, thought she’d balk at being tied up or having sex outside—on the mainland, fifty miles from the nearest human—wasn’t she the responsible one?  
  
“Oh, _yesfuckyes_,” the responsible one says, losing her footing and sliding down the edge of the table and he is seriously fingering Elizabeth Weir on the _briefing room table_, where they talk about _inventory_ and station defenses and missions and—  
  
“Wait,” Elizabeth says, breathless, and he knows that _wait_ and knows it doesn’t mean anything close to _stop_. She pulls his underwear down and he might feel a flutter of panic that he’s now _exposed in the briefing room_ but it doesn’t last, because she looks like she’s going to eat him alive as she shoves him backwards into a chair.  
  
_Her_ chair.  
  
Any blood he had left in his brain goes right to his dick and he wouldn’t care if someone did walk in because—fuck—_this_. She runs the city from here, sends him out to fight and explore and come back alive and he wants her to fuck him, right here.  
  
“I told you you’d like it,” she says, and grins, and sinks down on to him and it feels _so. good._ He’s not getting used to this—he’s spent an impressive amount of the past six months inside her and this—he comes home for this.  
  
It’s hard to sit still, but she’s pinning him with her hips, and he imagines her bare toes on the floor giving her leverage as she slides up and down. She’s bracing her hands on his shoulders and he buries his face in her shirt—red and professional and _Doctor Elizabeth Weir_—and he tries to hold on and wraps his hands around her hips and trembles when he hears the sound in her throat, the _thing_ she does when they’re in a rush and doing something they shouldn’t and he really thought he’d be the one to push _her_ edges.  
  
“Come on, come on,” he says and if it sounds a little like pleading, it always works, and _just in time_, because she tightens around him and her head goes back and she unwinds and he wants to hold on and just _watch_ because she’s incredible but the feeling of it inside her, God, there’s just no fucking way.  
  
He’s gasping for breath with his face still pressed into her chest, the smell of sex mixing with clean Atlantis laundry and the decorum they just completely, gloriously threw away.   
  
She’s grinning when he looks up.   
  
“That was interesting,” she says.  
  
He’s a little confused. “It was your idea!”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d go for it.” She climbs off him with a little _hmm_ that he adores, and her cheeks flush because now, apparently, she’s decided to be embarrassed. “I guess I should never play chicken with you, huh?”  
  
He laughs, and feels happy all over. “Anytime you want, Elizabeth.”  
  
The look she gives him is a little bit frightening. “What are you doing tomorrow at noon?”

**Author's Note:**

> From Sparktober 2010, in response to a prompt from janeqdoe: "John admitted Elizabeth had been willing to try every sexual position, location, and general dirty idea he's had since they finally began sleeping together."


End file.
